You can find me in a club; bottle full of bub

Last night during bath time, the kids and I were kidding around about our names.

Naveen insisted on being called Grandpa, then Grandma and finally asked us to refer to him only as Daniel. So Deaglan decided they should both start calling me Kimberly. It was a big improvement from a few nights ago when they landed on Mommy-tub. I feigned horror and acted appalled. I knew they didn’t get the implication; they thought it was hysterical because they were in the tub, and well, I’m their Mommy.

Still, I’m glad it didn’t stick.

I don’t mind telling you that for just a second a portal of fear opened up inside me – I caught a glimpse of us around a table 30 years down the road, me as big as a house, wearing a colourful kaftan, the two of them affectionately calling me Mama-tub.

A scene straight out of a Tyler Perry movie.

I listened to Deaglan make a mockery of my name: Kimbo, Kimmy, Kimball (Naveen repeating each one, then both of them laughing maniacally) and it dawned on me that he didn’t know I wasn’t always Kim. So I told him that when I was born, my Bangladesh Mommy and Daddy actually named me Rohima. When I came to Canada Mimi and Papa changed it to Kim.

“Ro-HEEE-MAH????” he asked over and over. He said it to himself a few more times. Then when he was dry and partially clothed again, he ran downstairs and I could hear him asking Shaune if he knew that Mommy’s name was actually Ro-Heee-Mah.  In the middle of the night, when I was escorting him to the bathroom, although half asleep, he whispered it again.

Ro-Heee-mah.

Wait till I tell him that I'm not sure if April 20^th is actually my real birthday. That some orphanage director picked it randomly to fill out my adoption papers. This kind of thing freaks even adults out so I decided to wait a few years; maybe I’ll tell him on my 50^th when he’s 13 and has the ability to process information like that.

It’s hard to believe I’ll be 50 in eight years.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the point I'm at in my life. Wondering how I should look at it. It’s easy to sink into a middle aged depression. There are a hundred things I haven’t accomplished yet.

I’m not thin enough.

I haven’t finished editing the book I’m working on.

I haven’t found the perfect skin care routine.

I haven’t tried to get published.

I've only seen one Springsteen show.

I haven’t been back to Bangladesh or spent any time in India.

I haven’t put good enough effort into healing all the broken relationships in my life.

I haven’t spent enough time with my friends.

Shaune and I have never been on a honeymoon.

I don't own a pair of these Black Laboutins with the wooden heels

Etc. Etc.

But there’s also this: I realized that this could be the midpoint of my life. I could be halfway through this journey. It made me reconsider and I thought hmmm, this is not so bad. After all I

Survived a difficult childhood

Earned a university degree and college diploma

Lived on my own for most of my twenties.

Met Shaune.

Was blessed with Deaglan and Naveen.

Have been to Graceland.

Have called a peaceful free country my home.

Know how to crop myself out of digital pictures.

Have enough shoes.

Deaglan told me that on Saturday when it’s my birthday I should stay upstairs until he calls me because he and Dad would be working on a surprise. He smiled and whispered  loudly that they might even be getting my favourite cake from Costco but he didn't want to say for sure. It was definitely going to be a surprise though.

This morning, because I was having a good hair day and the resulting smugness was making me a bit uncomfortable, I asked Deaglan how old he thought I’d be turning. He closed one eye, looked up at the ceiling and blurted, “56 right? No, I know, I know, you’ll be one hundred."

And just like that, I was back to my insecure humble self.

 I asked Shaune to take a few pictures this morning before I headed out to work. I wanted to post a picture of myself so you wouldn't forget what I looked like. 

 Some of these are from back at Easter. It's been too long since I've posted. I hate that. 

 Shaune put together this set-up so the kids could dye eggs.

 We were so lucky to have a beautiful day to do the Easter egg hunt at Gramma and Grampa's.

Last weekend we painted birdhouses. The next day we filled them with seeds and hung them in the front yard.

The necessary transition from serial killers to swim suits

We took the kids to an indoor water park in Michigan for the March break this past week. 

On the three hour drive I was viscerally alert to the sinister. I noticed things. A few very suspicious looking items caught my attention.  What appeared to be an adult-sized body had been wrapped in an ugly plaid blanket and tossed ever so delicately just beyond the shoulder of the I-69 West. Why, I asked myself, had the driver (killer??) chosen this exact section of the interstate to dispose of the body?

I’ll tell you why.

The shoulder there was narrower. And the ditch a good few feet deeper so that should someone with my scrutinizing abilities notice the evidence, it would be almost impossible to pull over to get a better look.

Twenty or so miles later when we pulled into a rest stop, I scanned the parking lot. In the sizeable yet rustic bathroom, I held my breath to fend off the porta-potty stink, peeked under the stalls and inspected the alignment of the ceiling tiles. When I was sure there was no one lurking in wait, I hurriedly did my business and ran breathlessly back to the van.   

You can never be too careful. These things are almost always connected.

A hundred miles later at the water park, I fine tuned my radar.  I was on the lookout for serial killer types.

Incidentally, that evening when I connected to the hotel’s Wi-Fi, I could not find my show on Netflix. I felt something close to panic at the prospect of waiting three whole days to find out how Dexter would deal with the murder of Rita. The season four finale was a crushing blow and I was desperately in need of a tidy explanation.

After a few hours poolside though, I was able to transition from serial killers to swimsuits. I am equally fascinated by both in a sick twisted sort of way. I never want to be (in) one but can’t resist their demented charm when confronted.  

The water park was teeming with parents of young children. In other words, I was among my own people. Men and women in the sophomore and junior years of parenthood, milled about; their babies and young children in tow, outfitted safely in water wings, life jackets and swim diapers.

Almost every mother there seemed to shrink behind some semblance of swim outfit she’d pieced together, wondering like me, why she’d allowed herself to be talked into this type of ‘vacation’ destination when it meant walking around helplessly parading the wreckage child-birth had tolled on her body.

There were plenty of tankinis. I assessed each one, hoping to see at least a few variations with the right built-in bra structure and enough give in the mid section. I was ready to ask for the shopping details, if the perfect one should cross my path. But no such luck. They all fit the same.  Plunging V-neck with little to no support and a too narrow cup area, so that half of each post partum breast hung low and exposed.

There were also many sporty one pieces, which without exception made the wearer look as if she had a short, squat, square torso. The exact opposite effect any of us wants when so scantily clad. I’d gone down this road after Deaglan was born. It was a very dark period of my life. One I am appalled Shaune caught on camera and one I can only hope to someday forget.

Some of my colleagues thought they could hide the damage with a strategically tied sarong or fetching beach cover-up, a tactic I’d used a few summers ago when the stifling heat and unbearable humidity had us driving to the beach at least a few days each week.

Yet most commonly worn, I noticed, was a throwback to a bygone era - a variation of the one piece with the added skirt/skort so that we looked like a modern less modest version of this.

After two and a half days of sucking in my stomach and walking around with a wet knotty bun, I was ready to move on. 

Our plans had included sidetracking so we could squeeze in a visit with my sister and her gang near Detroit. On route I spotted a DSW, a coveted oasis amid the desert of kiddie care I'd been lingering in. I convinced Shaune that I was in dire need.  In 20 minutes I was a new woman; refreshed and ready for the next phase of the trip. 

I hold these two beauties solely responsible.

The kids had a wild time reconnecting. Ashalina, my youngest niece, even fell asleep on the ride from the playscape to the restaurant. My brother-in-law Rick kindly turned around so we could capture her in this group shot.

I was relieved to get home late last night. I did a little reconnecting myself. I'm happy to report that Dexter was again in my queue.